


To Die For

by Simonspeaking



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: AU, Cancer, Evan just wants to hike, M/M, Sick Fic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Pact, The fault in our stars, Tree Bros, connor is gus, connor secretly hates life, evan is hazel, jared is isaac, treebros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 22:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11278482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simonspeaking/pseuds/Simonspeaking
Summary: The Fault in Our Stars AU. Inspired by a tumblr post made by @monsterunderthefedora.Seventeen-year-old Evan Hansen was diagnosed with lung cancer at age thirteen and knows that he can die any day. To try and make Evan feel better his mom signed him up for a support group. That’s where he meets Connor Murphy, a guy around his age with a pretty bad outlook on what little life he has left.Since he was diagnosed Evans always dreamed of climbing the Appalachian Trail, but he can hardly walk to support group without dying. Connor's missing leg also puts that farfetched dream even further from reality. But if they're both going to die anyway, why not doing something they love? At least that's Connor's opinion on the ordeal.However his mindset goes darker from there. Is there really a point of living for him? And how does Evan react when the truth finally comes spilling out.A very angsty fic, full of cancer, suicide, depression, and love.The Fault In Our Stars: Treebros edition.





	To Die For

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This fic was a very spontaneous thing I decided to write after reading a Tumblr post online by @monsterunderthefedora. I kind of have a general idea of where I'm taking this fic. My plan is to update at least every Sunday and try more than that if I can. This fic will be very similar to The Fault In Our Stars, I literally have the book next to me as I write this. There are characters, phrases, quotes and more directly pulled from the novel, however, it will stray from the path as the plot progresses. As these characters are based on Hazel and Gus, the Connor and Evan are a little OC, just to fit the story. This story is also in the process of being edited so please ignore any typos or grammar mistakes present, hopefully, they will be fixed shortly.Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Please let me know what you think and if I should continue this story.
> 
> (PS comments make my day :), the more comments I get the faster I write/update.)

Early in the fall of my seventeenth year my mother decided I was depressed, for plenty of obvious reasons. My “concerning” lack of friends, the many unhealthy hours I spent browsing on my laptop late into the night, the overwhelming crippling anxiety I dealt with on the daily, as well as the fact that I spent an alarming majority of my teenage life thinking about death. 

The thing about cancer is that it’s an unfriendly disease, to say the least. Long lists of symptoms are readily available on every medical website or hospital handout around. They of course name different symptoms, bruising, bleeding, puking, you name it. And would you know it, lucky for me- depression is one of the most common ones. I however totally disagree with that statement. The doctors, despite their vast years of education and experience and their shiny diplomas got it wrong. Depression is not a side effect of cancer, it’s a side effect of dying. 

My mother was not impressed by my infallible logic when I told her this, however, and took me (somewhat unwillingly) to yet another doctor. After a thorough inspection of my mental health he too agreed I was undeniably, unmistakably, undoubtedly clinically depressed. So my meds were adjusted and I was forced to go to the weekly hell that was “The Support Group”.

This support group became my worst nightmare while simultaneously being my mother's biggest relief. Being a cancer ridden individual since the ripe young age of thirteen had very quickly drained my mother of any and all of our finances. We barely managed to cover the cost of my medical bills even with my father's sorry excuse for child-care checks every month. So my mother got a second job and put in more hours in a desperate attempt to make ends meet. Unfortunately this resulted in her being gone all-day every day. So I was left alone to mourn for the loss of my childhood, while watching videos online alone.

I never left, ever. My cannula and tank were a ball and shackle tethering me to my house. The effort it took to properly equip myself for facing the outside world was quite frankly not worth it. Combine that with my crippling anxiety that reduced me to a stammering puddle of tears any time I had to speak to another living person. Never leaving the house didn’t bother me terribly. I was happy with the arrangement, I never had to talk to anyone. Human contact was an unnecessary extravagance to me. It was something for people who weren't dying. 

Due to therapy though, I was forced once a week to interact with children who were supposedly all like me. Children who were currently dying or going to die in the near future, and even those lucky few that would live a long life in blissful ignorance of the actual travesty it was to live a life as fucked as mine. A life as sick as mine. A life as dead as mine. My mother loved the fact that I had people to talk to. I, however, was less than thrilled.

To put it eloquently: support group fucking sucked. It always went the same. An ever changing amount of kids, ages ranging from seven to seventeen walked or wheeled or limped into the cross shaped Episcopal Church. We would pick over the pitiful excuse for cookies and lemonade available, and then promptly make our way to a circle of seats to talk about our feelings or illnesses or whatever shit Patrick deemed important. 

Patrick. 

He was the only thing more pathetic than the wretched support group himself. He would start every meeting the same way. Telling us all his sob story of aa life, how he had cancer in his balls and the doctors thought he would die- but how he beat the odds and how you too can heal and live to be like him, a middle-aged single man living in his parents basement and addicted to video games. 

In fact the only good thing out of support group was this kid there named Jared. He was the same age as me, short and chubby, with the thickest glasses i’d ever seen and a sense of humor that managed to brighten even my somewhat gloomy disposition. We weren't exactly friends per say, more like support group buddies? We had this unsaid mutual agreement to tolerate each other at group, but we never texted or hung out or even spoke, really, outside the confines of the church's basement. 

Still though, he made group at least somewhat tolerable. His witty remarks made me laugh for the first time in too long. We communicated almost exclusively in glances though. If an ever so optimistic patient was speaking we’d glance at each other, I'd wince, he’d roll his eyes, and then we’d look away. It was as simple as that, yet it almost made the whole situation more bearable. 

So support group sucked. In fact I hated it so much it grew into this huge tension-so-thick-you-could-cut-it-with-a-knife affair whenever my mother dared to bring it up. Ironically the wednesday I made the acquaintance of Connor Murphy I tried by absolute best to get out of support group while having a heated discussion with my mother on the phone. The conversation didn't exactly go in my favor.

“I refuse to attend Support Group” I told her matter of factly, refusing to back down this time.

“Losing interest in activities is a symptom of depression” My mom hummed back in annoyance. 

“It doesn't count as losing interest if I never had any in the first place. And besides I like going online. That’s an interest.” I shot back.

“The internet is a passivity, not a hobby”

“Ugh, mom, please.” 

I heard her sigh over the phone, “Evan you’re a teenager. Go out make friends. This group is here to support you.”

“If you want me to be a teenager so badly then let me do teenager things. Get my lisence, stay up all night, let me start smoking drugs.” I retaliated in frustration. 

“Smoking drugs?” She laughed. 

“See if you let me do it maybe I’d know the proper terminology or whatever.”

“Evan you’re going to support group.” she said, her voice going from playful to serious. 

“But mom-”

‘Evan you deserve a life.” She cut me off sternly.

That shut me up. Throughout this whole cancer endeavour, I had been able to handle many things. Medicines, surgeries, hospital visits. But the one thing that I couldn’t stand was what it did to my mother. Knowing that I was causing her such emotional turmoil, hurt me. Which just fueled my depression which then in turn hurt her even more. It was a never ending cycle of pain and sorrow. 

Caving, I groaned, “Ugh fine.”  
I could hear her smiling over the phone as she hung up. Mom:1 Evan:0. 

 

At least the walk to Group was nice that day. The church was close enough by that my god awful lungs could (just barely) handle it. For early fall the weather was nice. Leaves crunched underfoot as I walked slowly, dragging my oxygen tank behind. The crisp cool air stung my skin as I walked. I didn’t mind the cold though. I was always cold, poor oxygen flow to my limbs was one of the many cancer perks I aquired.

Despite the church only being a few blocks from my house I was breathing heavily when I arrived. Some parents frowned at me as they dropped their kids off. Probably wondering what I was doing walking to group. In reality, I wanted to walk. My mom of course had offered to leave work early on wednesdays to drive me, but I knew she needed every hour and I hated to see that strain on her. So I simply sucked up the pain and walked. It was good for me, I hadn’t gotten proper exercise in years. I considered it training for my secret impossible dream of climbing the appalachian trail. The adults almost ruined it. Instead of feeling embarrassed or stupid though, I chose to ignore their pitying eyes as I entered the building.

There however, I was faced with a new dilemma. Should I take the stairs or the elevator? Normally I would unquestioningly take the stairs, the elevator was a kind of “last days” thing at group. But my chest had hurt from having to take breaths, and my legs were sore from walking, and it had already been a pretty bad day. And...death was inevitable right? And for me it was coming sooner rather than later, so why should I not take the elevator? Was taking the elevator really giving up and admitting defeat like I had conditioned myself to believe, was my pride really worth more than my comfort?

I took the stairs.

Once I was in the basement I fell into my usual routine, I grabbed a cheap sugar cookie and filled a dixie cup with lemonade. Satisfied with my food, I turned around ready to navigate my way through the children and to my seat, when I noticed something odd.

A boy was staring at me. 

I had never seen him at group before. He was skinny and tall, he looked rather humorous sitting on the plastic elementary chairs the church supplied us with. I knew I had never seen him before because I was certain I would’ve remembered him. He made quite the impression. His chestnut hair grew long and wild to his shoulders. His face features were as sharp as a knife, just looking at them made me wince, as if his cheekbones had inadvertently cut me. And his eyes- there was nothing quite like them. They were a boring unspectacular blue, but there was something brewing underneath them. The emotions swam across his eyes as he gazed at me. It was a little uncomfortable, to be perfectly honest. I’d never had a boy look at me like that, let alone a cute boy. He looked my age, maybe a year older. His tall and lean frame was draped in all black. Despite the fact that he was just wearing a hoodie and jeans, it was obvious they were designer. Looking down at my worn blue polo and old khakis I suddenly felt underdressed. 

I hoped he didn't notice my cheap clothes. Then a thought crashed into my brain. What if his stare wasn't friendly, as I’d first assumed? What if it was a scrutinizing glare taking in all my actions and judging them? Flushing I looked away from the eyes, that now suddenly seemed to be a lot more malignant. Flustered I hurried to find my seat, not bothering to look up from my hands until the meeting officially started. 

After what felt like an eternity, Patrick finally started the serenity prayer that signalled the beginning of the session. 

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference...” he recited.  
Feeling somewhat braver now, I looked up from my clasped palms. 

He. Was. Still. Staring. At. Me.

Other people in my situation may have stared back, or winked, or glared, or smirked or done anything at all. I did not. I dropped my gaze back down to my lap and tried my hardest to ignore the sudden tenseness I felt. I could almost feel his eyes viciously ripping into me, taking in every fault, from my chipmunk cheeks, to the bulky cast on my arm. Feeling self conscious, I picked at the strips of plaster. 

“... Amen” Patrick finished his prayer, raising his head to greet the group, eyeing everyone and smiling. Finally it was time for introductions. 

“Jared, why don’t you go first,” He smiled sympathetically at him, “I hear you’re going through a tough time.” 

“Yeah,” Jared said. “I’m Jared. I’m seventeen years old. And it’s looking like I have to get surgery in a couple weeks, after which I’ll be blind. Not to complain or anything because I know a lot of us have it worse, but yeah, I mean, being blind does sort of suck.” He grimaced at me from across the circle. 

“But my girlfriend does help. And friends like Connor over here.” Jared said thumping the notorious-starer on the back. 

The boy, who now had a name, finally took a break from looking at me to grin at Jared. Patrick smiled too, “Connor, you’re new here, care to introduce yourself?” 

The boy, Connor, glanced at Patrick before speaking. His voice was surprisingly high for how tall he was, but I couldn’t help but think it oddly suited him.  
“My name's Connor Murphy,” he said, “I’m seventeen. I had some osteosarcoma almost two years ago, but I’m mainly here to support Jared.” 

Patrick, encouraged by Connor’s response, asked, “”And how are you feeling?”

For a millisecond, Connor hesitated. It wasn’t obvious, in fact the only reason I’d caught it was because of my intense morbid curiosity about his fixation with me. It gave him away though. I knew what hesitation meant, I had practically hesitated my whole life. My doctor once joked that I’d learned to slam on the breaks before I even turned the key. I laughed at her joke, mainly to be polite. Ironically I never actually had driven car before, it was too stressful for my body according to my mother. 

“I’m alright,” he answered, sounding surprisingly sincere considering his hesitation, “I’m getting better everyday.”

Introductions continued as we went around the circle, name after name, kid after kid, cancer case after cancer case. When it was finally my turn I spoke quietly and fast, like I had learned to do at previous meetings 

“My name is Evan Hansen. I’m seventeen. Thyroid with mets in my lungs. I’m doing okay.” 

“Now, Evan, did you write that letter like we discussed last week?” Patrick inquired.

My stomach plummeted to the ground. The stupid letter. Patrick had noticed my lack of participation, and in an attempt to encourage me into joining the conversation he assigned me to write a letter to myself. It was a stupid idea. He told me to write one about my day, list all the reasons why it was good or some stupid shit like that. Half in anger and half in resentment I had written the letter, but not exactly as Patrick had instructed. 

“Well… um- I- uh. Yeah.” I stuttered.

“Would you mind reading it to the group? I know I assigned some other kids to write one this week, and we’d love to hear yours as an example.”

I closed my eyes tightly, feeling the letter weigh down my pants pocket as if it were a concrete block. My mind raced at a million miles a minute, trying desperately to come up with a way out. After this proved hopeless though, I sighed and gave in. Reaching into my pocket and pulling out the god forsaken crumpled paper. I cleared my throat once before hiding my face behind the paper and reading as fast as I could.

“Dear Evan Hansen,  
Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year, because why would it be? Each day may be my last, and yet I still manage to do nothing everyday. Today I sat at my window and I watched all the kids walking home from school. I waved to some of them, hoping, praying someone would see me and take pity on me and wave back, but no one did. I wonder how my life would be different if I hadn't gotten sick. Maybe if I weren't sick nothing would be different at all. I wish everything was different.  
I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered to anyone. I mean face it, would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?  
Sincerely,  
Your most best, and dearest friend, Me.”

I licked my lips and sat down quickly, wishing we could just move on to the next person. The silence that followed my letter was overwhelming. A complete humdrum that ripped through my brain. Sweat pooled in my temples and I could hear the sporadic racing of my heart. 

Patrick cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Does anyone want to comment on that?” he asked the group, clearly shaken. 

I bit down on my lip, hard. Hoping the pain would distract me from the silence, when suddenly a scoff rang out through the room. I looked up, to find Connor murphy looking at me again, only this time there was no hint of malice, no anger, only sheer curiosity in his eyes. 

“That was depressing as hell.” 

“And why do you say that?” Patrick prompted Connor, clearly hoping this would lead to a discussion. 

“It’s just so... Hopeless.” he paused, trying to articulate something, “Like, it sounds more like something I’d write as a suicide note than a letter to myself for a support group. Like, ok so- it could be argued that being forgotten is inherently a fear everyone possesses. No one wants to fade into oblivion or disappear with no legacy. Human nature pushes us to do more, create something, live so that we will ultimately be remembered for something. That… letter just sounded so empty. So completely desperate for someone to confirm that you are not alone, not forgotten.” 

His sudden rant shocked me, I expected him to make fun of my letter or tell me how ‘incredibly strong’ I was or really anything other than what he did. He related. He managed to express the fears that bottled up in my brain. The emotions I couldn’t put into any better words than the ones I held in my hand. 

Patrick seemed lost. “Would, uh, would you like to speak to that Evan?”

I swallowed the nerves in my throat and just once allowed myself to be a part of the discussion. 

“Yeah. Exactly. Except it’s more than that. Because even if someone remembers me, if I manage to someone leave a mark on someone somewhere, eventually they’ll die, and their kids will die, and their kid’s kids will die. Eventually the entire human race will die out, and nothing will be left to remember me by. So really would it even matter if I disappeared tomorrow or in a million years? Either way you just disappear.”

“Alright, alright, I think that’s enough of that,” Patrick cut in trying to dispel the negative mood that had fallen over the circle, “Cecilia, why don't you tell us about your surgery from last week?”

And so group just went on, as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had changed. But I knew something had. The shift wasn’t tangible, but I could feel it in my gut. Connor’s eyes never left me for the rest of the meeting, and I, heartened by my contribution, stared back. I payed no attention to the insignificant whining of the other cancer kids, and before I knew it Patrick was closing with a prayer, listing all the names of the fallen. 

“And we remember in our hearts those whom we knew and loved who have gone home to you: Maria and Kade and Joseph and Haley and Abigail and Angelina and Taylor and Gabriel and . . .” 

I tuned out. It was a long list, people died often here. Instead I focused on the blue eyes and tried to figure out why I had even considered the possibility they were vicious. 

“...Living our best life today!” Patrick concluded brightly.

I meant to leave right away, I really did. But I might have gotten side tracked and taken a few seconds extra to stand and stretch in the hopes that mystery boy might approach. Just to explain his reasoning for the prolonged eye contact, or even just to further our debate about what it truly means as a human to disappear. 

And he did. 

Connor Murphy pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to me. His gait was crooked like his smile. Jared walked a few paces behind him, which was odd because Jared and I almost never talked after the meeting. It was one our our unspoken Support-Group-Buddy-We’re-Not-Actually-Friends rules. 

Connor practically towered over me as we walked up and out of the church together.  
“What’s your name?” he asked almost in wonder. 

“Evan Hansen, I said it in group.” I responded, confused

“No, like your full name.” He pressed further.

“That is my full name.” I answered. 

He smirked, “Playing hard to get, are you?”

At a loss for words, I shrugged. 

Clearly giving up, Connor turned to Jared and almost accusingly said “That was way worse than you made it out to be.”

“Told you it blew.” 

Connor raised an eyebrow, “Then why even bother with it?’

Jared shrugged awkwardly, “ I don’t know. I mean it kinda helps.”

The phone buzzed in his pocket. Jared pulled it out, a grin slowly encompassed his face. 

“Gotta blast guys, duty calls!” he called over his shoulder as he walked away. 

Connor scoffed and looked at me with an expression on his face like ‘can you believe this guy?’  
“That was totally his girlfriend.” 

“Oh without a doubt” I nodded, with a laugh.

He grinned, cocked his head and just looked at me. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, feeling the blood rush to my face.

“Because you’re beautiful. I enjoy looking at beautiful people, and I decided a while ago not to deny myself the simpler pleasures of existence.” He paused “I mean, as you so effortlessly explained, we’re all going to die one day, so why not enjoy life while we can, right?”

“Well based on what you said in group, you aren’t going to die anytime soon. It’s been almost two years since your cancer.” 

He hesitated again. I hated that. I hated the hesitation and the negative connotations behind it. I hated that I thought I knew what it meant and yet was utterly clueless at the same time. 

“Life is full of surprises Evan, as is death.” 

Then as if to prove his point, he did something that completely surprised (and repulsed) me. From the deep pocket of his black hoodie he pulled a sour smelling pack of cigarettes.  
I felt my jaw drop. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he turned to me. Noticing my slack-jawed stance his eyes glittered with confusion. 

“Oh my god.” I laughed in disbelief, “You’ve got too be kidding me. Do you know what those things do? You’ve literally had cancer and you smoke. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Wow. Not to mention what those do to the environment, I mean you’re practically killing the trees and-”

“Evan” he cut me off, rubbing his face in mock frustration, “That’s only if you light them.”

I blinked, utterly confused, “What?”

“It’s a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don’t give it the power to do its killing. Do you think I have a death wish Hansen?” 

“A metaphor?” 

“Yes, a metaphor. And for so wrongly accusing me, I think you owe me a favor. There's this new movie I rented that I want to watch, come over to my house and watch it with me.”

I ground my teeth together in consideration, if he didn’t smoke then maybe it was worth it to go? Just as a new life experience. Maybe I could learn more about this mysterious being and if he constantly lived his life through pretentious metaphors. 

“I don't know you though, I mean you could be an ax murderer for all I know.”

“Have a little trust!” he pretended to sound offended. 

Fuck it. I could die any day anyway. So, I threw caution to the wind. 

“Ok.” I agreed somewhat reluctantly. 

He grinned in response, “Great, let's go.”

“Wait.” I stopped suddenly thinking of my mother and the phone I left in my room at home. “Can I borrow your phone, I need to text my mom where I am.” 

“Sure” He smiled, and reached into his pocket again, pulling out his phone. Except, when he lifted it out, I saw a flash of something else, something that caught on the phone before falling back into his pocket. Though, I’d seen it so briefly I could’ve imagined it. I hoped I imagined it. Because I was pretty damn sure it was a lighter.


End file.
